


Brutally Soft

by RunMild



Series: Darcy does Dragon Age [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Darcy Lewis in Thedas, F/F, Modern Girl in Thedas, SHIP DARCY LEWIS WITH ALL THE THINGS
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 05:50:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12764484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunMild/pseuds/RunMild
Summary: Romance through politics, politics through friendship, and friendship through romance.Darcy and the women of Dragon Age





	Brutally Soft

**Author's Note:**

> The title "Brutally Soft" is a reference/quote from the poetry collection _salt._ by Nayyirah Waheed. The line is "I am a brutally soft woman."

If anyone can be credited with saving Darcy’s life, it’s Josephine Montilyet. Sure, farmer Sanderson did _technically_ pull her out of that ravine and take her sad, babbling self to what passes for civilization here, but Josie gave her _purpose_. She swooped into Darcy’s (new, terrible) life, took one look at her sweet barmaid skills (a slight exaggeration—but she maintains that those rude patrons spilled drinks on _themselves_ ) and offered her a job. Josie tells her, later, that she hates to see potential wasted, and watching Darcy cleaning up tavern vomit was akin to seeing an orchid thrown to the cold Fereldan elements.

Darcy’s no tropical flower, but she can’t deny that working with Josie has brought light and warmth back into her life.

Their relationship starts with a bit of hero-worship on Darcy’s part. Josephine takes her under her wing, delighted to find that she is both literate and articulate. For the first time since arriving in Thedas, Darcy is graced with a stroke of luck; she discovers that Josephine is not only a goddess among women, but a _diplomat_. Darcy, political science grad that she is, has _questions_.

_Is the chantry a religious or military organization? Oh, both?_ Awesome _. No way that can go awry._

_Yes, about that mage subjugation—_

_They’re doing_ WHAT _to elves in Rom—I mean, Tevinter?_

Josie is a comprehensive guide to politics and power dynamics in Thedas. That first week, their discussions stretch on into the night, until the candles are sputtering in their wax. When asked why she has no foundation of knowledge in these matters, despite clearly being educated, Darcy makes a pathetic attempt at handwaving her ignorance away with the excuse of being “severely sheltered.” The other woman purses her lips, a tiny crease in her brows, before smoothing her expression with a nod.

“Of course.”

Darcy wonders who she’s writing to for answers, because she’s certain that the subject, while dropped with her, has not been dropped altogether. Josephine Montilyet is nothing if not dogged and thorough. She does appreciate that the ambassador doesn’t press her for answers, though, because Darcy has no idea how to explain her situation without coming across as a) batshit crazy or b) some kind of abomination. She fears either assumption will spell a tragic end for both her association with the diplomat and the excruciating infatuation that she’s nursing for the other woman.

As a whole, this is possibly the most painful and convoluted crush that Darcy has ever experienced.

“You look like you could use a rest.”

Darcy jumps, quill jerking, and raises the nib before it can blot the page. “ _Jesus._ ”

Josie moves to stand in front of the desk, her mouth catching in an upward motion. Darcy tries not to stare at the little cluster of freckles just south of her lips. She fails.

“Only me, I’m afraid,” Josie says, her smile finally breaking free. “I hope I didn’t ruin your work.”

Darcy tries to concentrate on something— _anything_ —other than the woman’s mouth. She ends up studying Josephine’s hand, curled over the top of her writing board. The nails are smooth and clean, no crescents of dirt in the nailbeds, and no ink stains marring her cuticles. Darcy’s not sure how she manages; she herself looks like a street urchin by the end of the day, black flecks on every bit of exposed skin. Another tally in the “why Josephine is the better human in every conceivable way” column.  

“You know, everyone thinks Leliana is the silent-but-deadly one, but I think you’re the dark horse contender for the title.” Darcy pushes back from her desk and stands. “And, no, I was just finishing a supply order.”

“I’m glad,” Josephine says. “I would hate to undo your efforts.” Then she winks. “And who says we cannot both hold the title?”

Darcy’s heart stops, then picks up double time. She’s sure her ears and cheeks are turning a fine shade of pink.  

“No one would dare.”

“No, I think not.” Josephine’s smile is no less sweet for her words, and Darcy is so, so sunk. “Although I must say, I would prefer negotiations to be won out of diplomacy rather than fear.” At Darcy’s suspect look, she laughs.  “Well, maybe a _little_ fear. Will you join me for tea?”

As if she would turn any invitation of Josephine’s down. The other woman could ask her to muck out the stables and Darcy would be halfway across the courtyard before remembering that she’s terrified of horses. She’s in _that_ deep.

“I—yes. Thank you.” She tries to cover the light break in her voice with a cough, feeling like a pubescent boy. Darcy doesn’t… deal with crushes well.

“Oh, good. Comtesse Dimont sent a package of sweets with her last missive to the Inquisition, and I would hate to eat them alone.”

The ambassador doesn’t put undue stress on the word “missive,” but the implication that the Comtesse is trying to strongarm support from the Inquisition (again) is still there. Something to do with familial infighting, Darcy thinks. She’ll have to brush up on her Orlesian noble notes.

“Are we sure they’re not poisoned?” Darcy tries to discreetly wipe her palms on the skirts of her Josie-approved dress. At first, she wasn’t sure about the choice in apparel, but Josephine quickly won her over with one word: _pockets_. She allowed herself to be fitted the same day. And if Darcy’s skirts are uncouthly weighed down with several pounds of detritus in her many hidden compartments, Josephine chooses not to comment. As far as fashion compromises go, it’s pretty awesome. Also, she still gets to wear leggings beneath the swathes of fabric, which keeps her from freezing her ladybits off in a very literal way.

She follows the other woman out of the room that serves as their office, sure they are heading to their usual tea-and-biscuit balcony. Darcy will say this about Skyhold: it’s cold as balls, but it has a great view.

“They have been tested,” Josephine says lightly.

Darcy has to jog her memory to remember that they are discussing possibly-unsafe foodstuffs, not Thedosian fashion. They duck into an outer stairwell, one that has been mostly repaired, but remains drafty and somehow unreal. Darcy always has the strange impression when walking through it that the stones remember being… something else. She hasn’t voiced her feelings aloud, sure if she did, the others would chalk it up to lingering old magic. She’s certain that that _is_ the reason for some of her discomfort, but honestly, she’s more nervous that the stairs might suddenly remember whatever it is that they’re supposed to be, and that it will lead to Darcy plummeting down, down, down to the foggy valley below. This world may have magic, but Darcy certainly doesn’t.

To combat her growing nausea, Darcy focuses on the woman mounting the stairs ahead of her. There’s a curl of dark hair brushing against Josie’s neck, having escaped her bun, and Darcy fights the urge to reach out and touch it. Twirl it around her finger. Tuck it back into place.

She grips the stair bannister with renewed force.   

_Pull it together, Lewis_.

She has enough to worry about in this brave new world without risking offending one of her only friends. Josie has enough political influence to wreck Darcy’s prospects—not that she’d do such a thing without due cause—and Darcy values their (sadly, platonic) relationship too much to risk it for a chance at anything more. At least, not yet.

Some might call her reticence cowardice, but as Josephine reaches the landing and turns to her with a smile, the sun shining through an unshuttered window and backlighting her like a Renaissance angel, Darcy makes peace with her decision.

“I know we could take tea in the study, but the view here reminds me of our purpose.” Josephine reaches out to touch her arm, casually affectionate.

“Mm,” Darcy agrees.

As an ambassador, she’s sure Josephine can appreciate the playing of the long game. The rules here are different from earth, but Darcy has always been a quick study.

They share a smile, and Josephine’s hand lingers for just a moment too long. Darcy firmly tells herself not to read into it, but when her friend turns away, cheeks pinking ever-so-slightly, she can’t help but latch onto the faint hope with both hands.

If this is a game, then it is one Darcy intends to win.


End file.
